Like Salt in Food
by InsaneMelon
Summary: "Jealousy is like salt in food. A little can enhance the savor, but too much can spoil the pleasure." - A collection of One-Shots/drabbles dealing with the emotion 'jealousy'. Will feature Friendship/pre-slash/slash
1. Chapter 1

**A/N**: Sherlock doesn't belong to me in any way. I don't even own the DVD's since I live in Germany and they are soooo slow here! Curse you, you slowpokes!

**Spoilers:** Teeny tiny bit for the pilot 'A Study in Pink' but I just assume that you've all seen that by now.

**Pairing:** SherlockxJohn pre-slash OR strong friendship. I wrote it with the intention of writing a pre-slash story but be my guest, read into it whatever you like.

**Beta/Dedication:** This story was once again beta'd by the awesome **PrincessNala** and at the same time dedicated to her for putting up with my insane ramblings and encouraging them. I would probably be a much more sane person without you as a 'sounding-board' but I always thought sanity was overrated so it's all well. :)

My second Sherlock story, so feedback will be loved since I'm still a bit insecure whether I got the characters and the mood right.

Enough chit-chat, on with the story!

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

_Jealousy is like salt in food. A little can enhance the savor, but too much can spoil the pleasure (…)_

_- Maya __Angelou_ -

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

**Like Salt in Food **

"Victim is Mary Santiago, 24 years old. Lived alone and worked as a secretary. She was strangled-"

"Obviously."

"-and died approximately five hours ago." Lestrade finished, completely ignoring Sherlocks interruption. The interaction between the two men was a familiar sight by now and John couldn't help but smile. They reminded him of bickering children, although he would never tell them of course. Lestrade may put him in handcuffs and Sherlock... oh, Sherlock had all kind of methods to punish you without laying a hand on you.

The smile died when his eyes fell on the body of the dead woman and he scolded himself for his drifting thoughts. While Sherlock had made him giggle at a crime scene once, he didn't feel guilty about that since the man had killed a lot of people. And not to forget the fact that it had been John who had put an end to the cabbies sick games.

This was different though. Mary Santiago hadn't killed anyone – at least as far as he knew – and although he didn't know her he was certain that she deserved more respect.

He turned everything out and examined the dead body on the floor. Mary Santiago's corpse was twisted in a way that reminded him of a broken puppet. The deep purple contusion circling her throat stood horribly out on her otherwise death pale skin. Lifeless green eyes stared at the ceiling, a look of horror fixed on her youthful face.

Although he'd seen his fair share of just what human beings were capable of, John didn't think he would be able to get used to this. Dead bodies covering the desert were still something else than strangled women in London, his beloved home. It always made him wonder how people could do these things to each other when there was enough sorrow and misery out there.

Sherlock Holmes however didn't endeavor in musings like that and that was probably a good thing. It certainly allowed him to lean over the dead woman's body and sniff her neck so casually as if nothing was amiss.

Donovan screwed up her nose as she watched him work and John rolled his eyes. Sherlocks actions were queer, most of the time, but he got the results they wanted. He just wished she would finally get over her issues, whatever they may be.

"What are you doing now, Freak?" she sneered.

Lestrade shot her a look that clearly said 'I can't deal with this right now' but Sherlock simply ignored her and strolled to the dressing table in the corner of the bedroom. He spent a few minutes examining the various bottles of perfume he found there before he waved a hand into Lestrade's general direction. Everyone knew that this was the signal to get ready to write everything he said down.

"The killer is a woman. Probably about five inches taller than the victim, brown, long hair and considerably wealthy. They probably got into an argument that got out of control. This murder wasn't planned but still brutal which suggests that the killer was in a blind rage. When she realized what she had done she left quickly, not bothering to destroy her tracks."

John was amazed, as always, and even Donovan looked slightly impressed, although still unconvinced.

"HOW in the world could you know that?"

Sherlock exhaled a long suffering sigh and glanced at John who tried to hide his smile. A small twitch of Sherlock's lips was all he saw before the consulting detective turned back to the copse.

"It's simple Donovan. Especially you as a woman should have recognized the smell on the victims neck. It's a perfume for women only and very expensive. I didn't see it on Santiago's dressing table and the state of her flat indicates that she would never be able to afford such an expensive scent."

"And why do you think that this wasn't planned? And the brown hair?" John asked when Sherlock didn't continue on his own and Sally was too busy to sniff the woman's neck.

"Well, see the flower petals by the door? They are still fresh but I don't see the bouquet belonging to them. That suggests that the killer brought it, maybe as a gift, and took it with her again when she left after the murder. I think it's highly illogical that someone would bring the person they are planning to kill flowers. As for the hair-" here he shot Lestrade a little smirk. "Santiago fought fiercely. She managed to pull some of the killers hair out as you will see when you lift her left hand just a little."

The DI didn't do that, just muttered under his breath and made a note of the new evidence in his notebook. "Something else you might want to add?" he asked, and John couldn't decide whether he sounded sincerely hopeful or just plain sarcastic.

It didn't seem to matter to Sherlock either way. "You should probably know that the killer and Santiago were a couple." he said in a bored voice, sounding as if his mind was already on the next case.

Lestrade did a double take and scratched his head. "Are you sure? She was-"

"Oh please, the signs are everywhere!" Sherlock huffed but didn't elaborate any further. It was a testament of Lestrade's dependency on the eccentric man that he didn't demand an explanation but just wrote it down in his book with a little shrug. "Who found the corpse again?"

"Her neighbor. Alan Hayes. He wanted to bring her the stuff he'd borrowed a few days ago. Instead found the door unlocked and Santiago like this."

"I want to question him." Sherlock said and took John's arm to guide him out of the room. John had noticed that his friend seemed to touch him an awful lot for a while now. Whether it was a hand on his arm like now or just the brushing of shoulders when Sherlock passed him in a doorway; he always seemed to find a reason to touch him.

It didn't bother him all that much, certainly not as much as it should. He just wondered what his flatmate's deal was and whether anyone else had noticed?

"He's in his flat." Lestrade shouted after them and when John looked back over his shoulder it was just in time to see a bemused little smile on the Inspectors face.

Apparently, others _had_ noticed...

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

The interview was mostly uneventful except for the fact that Alan Hayes seemed to be watching John an awful lot. The ex-army surgeon tried to ignore it but couldn't help but think that this amount of attention wasn't quite normal. Sherlock, in all his social awkwardness, noticed it too of course, but didn't pay it any mind since it had nothing to do with the case.

After a few minutes Sherlock excused himself for a moment to speak to Lestrade. John wanted to go with him but he knew that he didn't have a good reason to do so. And if he knew his flatmate at all he also knew that Sherlock would have no qualms about pointing that out in front of their witness. While he didn't like the way the man looked at him, he didn't want to appear rude either.

There was nothing left for him to do but hope that the detective didn't take long. He tried to distract himself with the contemplation of a painting. Too bad that the painting hung behind Hayes' right shoulder so he couldn't possibly miss the way the man leaned back in his seat, mustering him from head to toe. What was up with that bloke?

"So, Sherlock Holmes, huh?" said bloke drawled and John was forced to look at him. Damn him and his good manners! "Interesting fella."

"Quite so." John supplied dryly and cursed his luck that he was sitting with his back to the door. That would make it a lot more difficult to shoot it unobtrusive glances to see if Sherlock was coming back yet.

Hayes chuckled, although _what_ about, John couldn't say. "But I have to say that he's not quite as interesting as someone else I've met today."

John froze for a second. This couldn't possibly mean what he thought it sounded like, right? He glanced at the man in front of him cautiously and when he saw that leering smile he knew that, yes, Hayes really was flirting with him.

The thought that someone was trying to put the moves on him really shouldn't have made him feel as uncomfortable as he did right now. It was ridiculous really, how the suggestive comment of some guy could throw him for a loop – him, Dr. John Watson, who'd served in the army and had seen the horrors of war. This should have been nothing more but a tiny blip on his, as his sister liked to call it, 'freak o' meter'.

But maybe it shouldn't be that surprising after all. When he'd been in Afghanistan he didn't have to deal with romantic advances of any kind and when he'd been back in London he'd been too preoccupied with the pile of shards that his life now consisted of to even notice those who might have been interested in him. This had to be the first time in many years that another person was openly flirting with him. And a man on top of that! John supposed that, in light of that, he was allowed to freak out a little bit.

It took him a few seconds to realize that Hayes was already talking again. "It must be really exciting to work with him though."

"Yeah well, not as exciting as living with him." John didn't know why he said that. Maybe because it was the truth but maybe he just really wanted to get this man off his back.

It looked like his plan had worked for Hayes flinched back as if John had just punched him in the gut before a disappointed pout settled on his face. "Oh, so you two are-?"

"No, we are not." John huffed and sighed. It was an automatic response by now. He hadn't known Sherlock for more than a month and he was already painfully used to other people assuming that the two of them were a couple. No matter how much he denied the fact, they would just look at him with that knowing smile and keep gossiping about the two of them behind their backs. At first it had bothered John to some extent but when he'd realized that Sherlock himself was totally indifferent to the whole dilemma, he'd guessed that he shouldn't let these people get to him either. They thought what they wanted to think anyway and if they wanted to think that someone as incredibly as Sherlock could really want someone as ordinary as John – well, who was he to contradict them?

It was really just an automatic reflex by now, but the doctor realized that he should have bitten his tongue when Hayes perked up again.

"Ah, no boyfriend then? I find that hard to belief."

John refused to blush like a catholic schoolgirl but knew that he'd failed utterly when the man in front of him chuckled and winked at him. It was so cliché that it was almost original again.

"No, no boyfriend." A cynical voice in his head wondered why he didn't add _'And not interested to have one either' _but since he really didn't have an answer to that question he decided that he could just as well ignore it for now.

"Just like me then." Hayes said and John suddenly experienced a strong sense of déjà vu. This conversation seemed awfully familiar all of a sudden. John couldn't help the amused smile that tugged at his lips when he finally realized how Sherlock might have gotten the wrong idea that day in the restaurant.

Smiling right then turned out to be one of the many mistakes he'd already made since Sherlock had left the room. Hayes, of course, totally misinterpreted it. John suddenly found himself leaning back into the cushions to avoid Hayes, who was leaning forward and putting his hands on the doctors thighs. Not only was the gesture much too intimate for John's taste, but he also found himself rather trapped on the couch now.

Hayes didn't seem to notice his discomfort. "Why don't we change that. I know a nice little restaurant right around the corner."

After the shock of being touched 'there' by a total stranger passed, John felt the stupor make room for righteous anger.

How dare this man breaching his personal space like that? Acting like he and John were good friends? John hadn't begrudged Hayes the flirting. If he looked past the discomfort the man had caused him he had to admit that he was a bit flattered by the attention and interest the guy displayed in him. He knew that he would win no super model contest with his looks and the fact that a much younger man found him attractive had significantly boosted the doctors ego.

But touching him without his consent, even if it were only the thighs, was going too bloody far and John was not willing to put up with that from anyone.

He was just about to push him away and give the man a piece of his mind, when out of nowhere a hand shot out and grabbed Hayes' left wrist. John was pretty sure that he just imagined the sound of bones grinding against each other. But when Hayes cried out in pain and desperately tried to rip his limb free he wasn't so sure anymore. The assailant didn't let go however and it took John only a second to recognized the long, lean fingers that were wrapped around Hayes' wrist.

He would recognize those anywhere.

Sherlock Holmes was leaning menacingly over Hayes who had slid from the couch to the ground and was now kneeling before the detective like a child begging for forgiveness. Sherlock's face was an unmoving mask but John had already realized that, when his flatmate was concerned, the emotions were lurking in his eyes. And those were afire with anger, indignation and something else. Something that John had never seen there before and therefore couldn't quite identify.

The army surgeon watched in disbelief as his friend twisted the captured limp until Hayes was openly sobbing. If John wouldn't have been so completely baffled and speechless he might have tried to intervene and get Sherlock to back off. He was still a doctor after all and if that wrist wasn't already broken, then it would only be a matter of seconds before he'd hear the bones break under Sherlocks unrelenting hold.

"Dr. Watson has no desire to stay in your company. As you would have noticed if you'd bothered to watch his body language. We will go now."

The detective gave the wrist a last vicious squeeze before he finally let go. The same hand that had inflicted so much pain just mere seconds ago was now gently taking John's elbow, pulling him off the couch and leading him out of the flat. John followed numbly and they were already in the hallway when he found his voice again.

"What was that?"

"Whatever do you mean?" Sherlock asked and it infuriated John to no end that his voice was so steady and calm while he himself barely managed not to screech. He stopped, forcing the detective to stop as well since he still had a hold of his arm.

"You know what I mean."

His friend sighed dramatically as if he couldn't believe that he really had to explain his actions to another human being when they were so very obvious. "I was under the impression that you didn't welcome Alan Hayes advances and deemed it necessary to intervene."

Sherlock almost growled Hayes name but John hardly noticed. He was too busy glaring at his friend and pressing his lips into a thin line. '_That bloody pillock...'_

"Well, you needn't have bothered." He snapped and almost missed the brief flash of that strange emotion he'd already witnessed when Sherlock had more or less tortured Hayes mere minutes ago.

Sherlock practically sneered and his next words were clipped and harsh. "I understand. So Hayes' advances were welcomed after all. Please do forgive me John for intruding your romp-"

This time John _did_ screech. "ROMP? God Sherlock, there was no bloody romp! And of course I didn't want Hayes attention. I'm just saying that you needn't have bothered because I'm not some damsel in distress that needs a savior. I can take care of myself."

The consulting detective took a step forwards, towering over the smaller doctor.

"Excuse me but it didn't look like you were taking care of the problem. It actually looked like you were quite out of your depth."

"Out of my-?" John spluttered. "Now wait a minute. I was just about to tell that guy to piss off when you came barreling in like... like.."

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow. "Like?"

John remembered the emotion he thought he'd seen in Sherlock's eyes and searched for the right word. Only one came to mind and that couldn't possibly be right but he wasn't willing to let his flatmate have the last word.

"Like you were jealous."

The detective laughed mockingly but it didn't ring quite right. "Me? Jealous? Please John, don't insult your own intelligence. I'm a high functioning sociopath. Pathetic emotions like 'jealousy' are beneath me."

John rolled his eyes. "So, you try to tell me that the little display a moment ago _wasn't_ beneath you?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes but before their discussion could grow into a full-blown argument, they were interrupted by the sound of someone clearing their throat. Both men turned to see Lestrade standing in Santiago's doorway, watching them with a mischievous smile.

John suddenly noticed how close he and Sherlock were standing to each other and that he still felt the warm presence of long fingers around his arm. He took a quick step back and the hand on his arm lingered and followed a moment, as if reluctant to let go, before it disappeared.

If possible, Lestrade's smile grew even wider. "Are you lovebirds done now? We still have a murder to solve, you know?"

John blushed, something he did an awful lot today he noticed, but Sherlock merely crossed his arms and glared at the Investigator.

"You underestimate me again, Lestrade. I already know who the murderer is."

The twitching of his left eyebrow was the only indication that Lestrade was surprised. "Tell me."

In that moment Hayes stumbled out of his flat, holding a wet towel to his wrist. He looked fairly composed again but when he saw Sherlock standing there he froze on the spot and his face lost all color. John was beginning to feel sorry for the man. Sherlock must have given him quite a scare.

No one was more surprised than John however, when the detective suddenly pointed right at the quivering man. "He did it."

Hayes looked on the verge of collapse while Lestrade did a double take. "Sorry but; What?"

Sherlock waved his arms into the air, a clear sign that he was getting impatient. "He murdered her. Go on, arrest him already."

"I didn't do anything! God, I swear, I didn't!" Hayes cried.

Lestrade didn't look convinced either. "Didn't you say it was a woman?"

Sherlock was probably about to launch into a long winded explanation but John put an end to it before he could even start. He knew exactly what was happening here, he just didn't know whether he should be angry or break into hysterical laughter. It was appalling how... childish Sherlock could be.

He fixed his friend with his best stare, the one he'd learned in the army, the one that said 'Don't you try messing with me, you won't like the results'.

"Sherlock!"

The self-proclaimed sociopath stood his ground longer than any of the soldiers had ever done but in the end, even he had to submit to 'the look'.

"Oh fine! He didn't kill her, but knows who did. Santiago and him have the same stamp on the back of their hands. A stamp which is used as entrance to the gay bar just around the corner. From the fact that the colors of the stamp are faded to the same degree I deduce that they visited the club together, probably two days ago. Either Mary met her murderer there or she already accompanied them. No matter what, he'll know who she bedded with lately."

Lestrade muttered something about bipolar consultants as he led the traumatized Hayes back into his flat and closed the door behind him. John was amused to note that Sherlock wouldn't quite meet his eyes when they were alone again.

"Sooo," he drawled. "Pathetic emotions are so beneath you, aren't they?"

Sherlock wrinkled his nose but John didn't miss the wry smirk that hushed over his face. "I don't know what you mean. My acting skills will have shaken Hayes enough to spill everything he knows. I'm certain that, by tonight, Lestrade will have his killer."

"If you say so." John said softly, an affectionate smile brightening his features. Sherlock stared at him for a long time, seemingly trying to take everything about him in, memorizing every little detail that was John Watson. His stare was even more intense than Hayes' had been but this time it didn't make John uncomfortable.

Not at all.

Sherlock opened his mouth, looked like he wanted to say something very important, but then closed it again and shook his head.

"We should better go before-" They heard a muted curse and seconds later Lestrade screaming Sherlocks name. John couldn't help but laugh at the expression on his friends face. "Before our good inspector notices that I broke his witness."

As the two of them ran down the hallway, a furious Lestrade shouting after them, John thought that a Sherlock that had discovered the pathetic emotion called 'jealousy', would probably mean even more trouble for him.

And he wouldn't have it any other way.

END

A/N: So, loved it? Hated it? I'm thinking about turning this into a collection of One-Shot's/drabbles circling around the different forms of jealousy - in friendship and love. But first I'd like to know whether there's any want for a collection like that, so tell me! Plotbunnies are welcomed as well, of course! :D


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** Still not mine.

**A/N:** First of all, thank you soooo much for your reviews! I loved every single one of them!

Okay, so I decided to make this into a collection of One-Shot's/drabbles dealing with the topic *drum roll* jealousy! There will be friendship, pre-slash and of course full blown slash. I'll 'warn' you what it'll be in the A/N, of course, so that you'll know whether you would like to skip a certain chapter. So, here's the second One-Shot. And here are the facts you should know:

**Pairing:** Sherlock/John FRIENDSHIP and Sherlock/Mycroft Brotherly stuff

**Rating:** T to be safe

**Spoilers:** Set after TGG but no real spoilers

**Word count**: 2,004

**Beta**: The amazing PrincessNala. Thanks so much.

Now enjoy, please.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

_'I don't believe an accident of birth makes people sisters or brothers. It makes them siblings, gives them mutuality of parentage. Sisterhood and brotherhood is a condition people have to work at. _

_- Maya Angelou -_

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

An Accident of Birth

He'd tried to deny it for a very long time. He'd told himself that it couldn't be. That this was not something he was supposed to feel. That this wasn't something he _wanted_ to feel.

People used to tell him that he was an amiable kind of guy and he'd always been proud of that reputation. He was known to be patient and understanding, to keep his head in moments of a crisis. Considering who his flatmate was, he bloody needed to be those things.

But what he was feeling now wasn't what a genial or understanding guy was supposed to feel and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't ignore it any longer.

He had to face to truth, whether he wanted to or not; Dr. John Watson was jealous.

John still couldn't quite wrap his head around it. To be honest, he was surprised that he was even capable of experiencing such an ugly emotion. There had certainly been no room for jealousy in the army. At least not if you weren't the kind of person who'd begrudge another soldier the fact that they went home with more limbs than you.

And John wasn't that kind of person.

Admittedly, when he had been discharged and thrown back into a world he didn't understand anymore, he had been bitter and depressed.

But never jealous.

But now he was, and for such a trivial matter too. It would have been actually quite ridiculous if it hadn't slowly consumed his mind and made him more irritable with each passing day.

But admitting it didn't mean he had to think about it. For now, John Watson was just glad to be home after a grueling night. He sighed in relief when he entered the rooms at Baker street 221B and more or less collapsed into the chair that he'd claimed as his own. Sleep wouldn't come however, since the two other occupants in the room had no intention of stopping their argument just because John was tired.

The doctor watched them through heavy lidded eyes, once again amazed how different the two brothers were.

Mycroft was as calm and collected as always - only the tight grip on his umbrella betraying how he really felt. John knew the older Holmes only did that when he was short of beating some sense into his brother with said umbrella. The ex-army surgeon wondered if anyone else (except for Sherlock of course) had ever noticed that little tick of Mycroft. He couldn't imagine the man being happy with anyone that was able to look right through that mask of indifference he always wore.

Sherlock, on the other hand, was all flailing limbs and stormy expressions. The genius had never bothered to hide his irritation with his brother. Or with anyone else, really.

"Of all the bloody idiots I have to deal with all day, I wouldn't have expected _you_ to make such a grave error in judgment, my dear brother." Sherlock seethed. He was pacing up and down their living room. John gave up following him with his eyes after a few minutes - it was making him dizzy.

"I could say the same." Mycroft replied calmly. John was once again amazed how aloof the man managed to sound. Not a lot of people stayed calm when Sherlock teared into them like that. The doctor had a lot of patience himself, but even he needed to bite his tongue from time to time when his flatmate went off the deep end.

Sherlock shot his brother a venom filled glare. "We were fine until you and your lackeys turned up."

Mycroft raised one of his eyebrows and his gaze momentarily flickered over to John who was cursing his bad luck. He'd hoped they would keep him out of their petty argument, just this once. "I'm sure Dr. Watson and his sprained wrist would disagree. And your bleeding head wound doesn't exactly proof your capabilities either."

The consulting detective's hand went to the cut on his forehead but stopped just short of touching it. John meanwhile hid his aching wrist as best as he could. He'd suffered worse in his life and it probably wouldn't even hurt anymore come tomorrow morning, but he didn't like being reminded of his inability to block the attack of their suspect. Especially since, shortly after knocking John down, the man had hurt Sherlock as well and the doctor couldn't help but feel guilty. If that murderer hadn't surprised him, then his friend wouldn't have gotten hurt. He was actually happy that Mycroft had turned up when he did but he would be damned if he voiced that thought.

His genius flatmate waved his hand in dismissal. "No reason to interrupt our investigations. You're always getting in the way and I'm sick of it."

Mycroft's face went carefully blank and John felt his irritation with his friend rise another notch. He uncurled the fingers that had balled into a fist and watched the brothers ignoring each other until the older one left with a brief nod in Johns direction.

Sherlock was still fuming when they heard the door downstairs shut, but John wasn't faring much better. It grew harder and harder to keep his temper in check. He just hoped that the detective would let this go...

"Can you believe him?"

John groaned. He should have known better. Sherlock never let things simply go.

"I just don't understand why he always feels the the need to interfere with my life."

Maybe, if he hadn't been in pain and so bloody tired, he might have been able to stop himself from reacting. If he hadn't been so high-strung from his own tangled, confusing emotions, he might have simply shrugged it off and gone to bed. But as it was, John mouth opened without his consent and released words that would have better been left unsaid.

"Bloody pillock, Sherlock! Mycroft cares about you."

Sherlock seemed taken aback for a second – although John doubted he was as shocked as John was himself – before he regained his composure and rolled his eyes. "Oh please, John. We can barely stand each other."

"And yet he cares, doesn't he?" John hissed and jumped out of the chair. For a moment he didn't know what to do with himself, then he decided to make some tea. _When in doubt, make some tea,_ he told himself. While he brewed himself a cup he was painfully aware of Sherlock's eyes following his every move. And he was also aware of the fact that he hadn't stopped talking yet. "He cares about you, checks up on you. Okay, so his methods are a bit extreme, with the 24/7 surveillance and all, but he only does that because he wants to make sure you are safe. And what does he get in return? Nothing but harsh words and your bloody rejection. But he won't stop caring because that's what brothers do, no matter how ungrateful their siblings are. No matter how much their antics hurt them. Brothers care and they always will."

There was nothing but silence after his outburst. John was breathing hard and refused to turn around and see the expression on Sherlock's face. His hands were shaking as he poured some tea into two cups and he felt the outrageous anger leave him ever so slightly.

He didn't even bother trying to pretend that this was about Sherlock and Mycroft anymore. And there was probably no chance in hell that Sherlock hadn't noticed it too.

When he finally had to acknowledge that there was nothing left to do in the kitchen, he forced himself to turn around and face his flatmate.

Sherlock looked at him with an expression on his face that was somewhere between surprise, disbelief and... contrition?

The silence was becoming uncomfortable. Before John could make up an excuse to leave, Sherlock's soft voice reached his ears.

"By the way, how's Harry?"

John expected to feel embarrassed and humiliated. Even being angry with Sherlock for seeing through him so fast would have been welcome. Instead he felt the heavy blanket of resignation settle over him.

"The same as always."

And that was the problem. John had done everything to help Harry after she'd broken up with Clara. Had offered her an ear to listen and even a shoulder to cry on although Harry had never been the kind of woman who felt comfortable expressing her emotions.

Even though he'd had problems of his own upon coming home, he'd tried to get her back on track. His worry hadn't been appreciated, though. She had shoved him away and turned to the bottle instead. John couldn't even say anymore how often she'd called him in a drunken stupor and yelled at him. His sister had the tendency to blame him for everything that went wrong in her life, including her failed marriage.

'If you hadn't gone to that stupid war I wouldn't have worried so much and then I wouldn't have started drinking and then me and Clara wouldn't have argued all the time! This is all your fault John! Fix it!' she would scream and he would bite into his own hand until he drew blood so he wouldn't scream right back that she'd never worried about him.

Not like Mycroft did about Sherlock.

Harry was the older sibling but she didn't act like it. Every time John saw the two Holmes brothers bicker, saw how Mycroft cared about his little brother in his own insane way, he couldn't help but envy Sherlock and resent him just the tiniest bit for not appreciating his big brother. Just like Harry never appreciated what he did for her.

For all his social awkwardness and bad-people-skills, Sherlock must have figured some of that out with that big brain of his. He looked decidedly uncomfortable and John almost felt sorry for him before remembering that he should be the one to be uncomfortable.

Especially since it actually looked like Sherlock wanted to talk about this some more. A few weeks ago John would have found the idea that Sherlock wanted to talk about feelings – voluntarily – ridiculous, but the detective had changed a lot since the incident with Moriarty and the pool. He'd become more willing to let John in, not just into his flat, but into his heart, as cheesy as that sounded.

But no matter how much John appreciated the change in Sherlock, he wasn't ready to talk about Harry just yet. She was still a sore spot and always would be. His eyes pleaded with the other man to let the topic drop and fortunately his friend, for once, actually understood what he wanted.

And complied.

Sherlock cleared his throat, grabbed his tea and looked anywhere but at John. "Well, anyway, I guess I could be a bit more... considerate towards Mycroft in the future."

John was touched. The way his friend had almost chocked on the words was proof enough that this kind of admission couldn't have been easy.

"Are you sure you'll really be able to do that?" he joked, relief and remorse filling him. It had been stupid to be jealous of Sherlock's relationship with his brother. It wasn't their fault that Harry was slowly destroying her life or that John was too weak to do anything about it.

Sherlock relaxed visibly when he saw John smile at him. He shrugged and retreated to their living room, convinced that John would follow.

"Probably not."

John couldn't help but chuckle. He figured that a 'Probably not' was still better than a 'Hell no!'.

For now, that was enough for him.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

A/N: The idea that John would be jealous of Sherlock's 'close' relationship with his brother wouldn't leave me alone once I had it and I just HAD to write it down. A bit more angsty than my usual stuff, but I really do like angsty! Expect more.

Loved it? Hated it? You know how to tell me...

Btw, if you have a plotbunny that could fit into this collection, I'm still open to hear it!


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** The boys are not mine, although they'd been on my christmas wishing list. Stupid Santa!

**Warning**: Slash guys, that means boyxboy. Hope that was warning enough.

**Pairing:** SherlockxJohn of course. Oh and there will be Gladstone! YAY!

**Spoilers:** Not really, set after TGG. But if you haven't watched it yet, you shouldn't be here anyway. You should be watching it!

**Beta:** The amazing and wonderful **PrincessNala**.

**A/N:** It was fun writing this, but I'm not sure if I'm happy with the outcome. I like it the way it is but another writer could have probably done a better job at it. Nah, I feel self-concious today, so I'll just let you decide whether you like it or not. 'Kay? :)

The jealousy is a bit more subtle this time... but not by much.

Enjoy!

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Mean Affections

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

_"One must not be mean with the affections; what is spent of the fund is renewed in the spending itself."_

_Sigmund Freud_

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

That bloody dog was doing it again.

Sherlock glowered from his perch on the couch, unable to tear his gaze away from the sight in front of him.

Any other day he might have been able to ignore the disgusting display by occupying his mind with other, more important problems. But Lestrade hadn't called in two weeks and the consulting detective was painfully aware that his brain cells were slowly dying from the utter boredom he was forced to endure. There had been some experiments of course, but they only ever managed to entertain him for so long before he couldn't stand the smell of chemical substances anymore or grew bored of them as well. And besides, his flatmate had the tendency to sneak out during the night and throw them away, rendering them useless anyway.

For a while it had been amusing to watch John and intercept him, more often than not frightening the poor bloke quite a bit when the taller man suddenly stepped out of the shadows - "Bloody hell Sherlock! Are you trying to give me an heart-attack?" - but that had soon lost its charm too and now he spent his days lying on the couch and – he felt like a broken record – being bored, bored, bored!

Usually John provided enough distractions during these depressingly unproductive times. Sherlock had soon discovered that, for all the plainness he'd assumed about the man at first, the doctor was most interesting to watch and observe. There was rarely a day going by that Sherlock didn't find out something new about John. For example the way the man always muttered to himself when he stood in front of the open refrigerator. Or how he scratched his left ear when he was embarrassed about something – a trait that Sherlock found especially endearing and that led him to embarrass his friend as often as he could.

Sherlock had also taken to observe his own reactions to John. He wasn't ignorant enough to dismiss the effect his friend was having on him. When John entered a room, Sherlock would find himself quickly looking him over, making sure that there was nothing wrong with the ex-army surgeon. In turn, when John left the aforementioned room, Sherlock's eyes would follow him while his mind debated whether it wouldn't be better to follow him and make sure that he didn't get into trouble again.

The consultant was also surprised to discover that he apparently craved John's closeness. More often than not he would unconsciously shift closer to the man when they were on the couch together.

If John noticed anything amiss, he didn't show it. Sherlock couldn't help but be grateful for that. It irked him, but for all his brainpower he still hadn't quite figured out what his sudden change in behavior meant. He wasn't good with stuff like emotions. John was, but he couldn't really ask John since he was slightly smarter than the rest of the idiots. At least smart enough to figure out that Sherlock was talking about himself and not some theoretical third person.

That meant that he had to rely on his own observations and hope that he'd draw the right conclusions. So he observed John as much as possible, even if it was sometimes more than difficult. Especially when that... _thing_ was near.

Like now.

John's silent laughter brought him out of his thoughts and Sherlock couldn't help but to wrinkle his nose at what he saw: John Watson was sitting in his favorite chair and on his lap was a puppy, happily licking the doctors face.

Sherlock still couldn't believe that he'd let John keep the mutt. The former soldier had come home one day, trying to hide a wet and shivering bundle under his sweater which hadn't fooled Sherlock at all, of course. John then had told him some sob-story about how he'd found the little guy in an alleyway, discarded and obviously forgotten by some heartless wanker.

_'I couldn't leave him there.'_ he'd said, and _'Just until I find someone to take care of him, I promise Sherlock.'_ and Sherlock had graciously agreed since it wouldn't be him that would have to take care of the pup and he figured that it wouldn't stay with them for long anyway. He had always been under the impression that people loved little, cute puppies and he'd been sure that John would find someone to take it in, sooner than later.

Except, John hadn't found anyone. After three weeks the thing was still living with them and Sherlock had had enough of the animal messing with his notes and experiments. He'd mentioned the animal shelter during breakfast one day, only to regret it a second later when John stared at him with that heartbroken look of his. Although the doctor had never said it, Sherlock had known that he'd wanted to keep the puppy himself. John had made the mistake of getting attached to the little guy, even giving him a name, buying him toys and going to the vet to get the necessary shots.

Although John had looked at him with those big, teary eyes, cuddling a sleeping 'Gladstone' to his chest, Sherlock had been determined to not give in. They couldn't keep a dog. Mrs. Hudson wouldn't mind, he knew, but the detective couldn't risk loosing his concentration during a case just because the puppy had peed on the carpet again.

But then it had been Sherlock himself who had make a grave mistake. Without his consent, his eyes had trailed to that small burn on John's neck, the only visible reminder of the pool incident, and his determination had died a slow, pitiful death.

The burn wasn't too bad. Some days, when the light was just right, you barely even saw it. But Sherlock would sometimes catch John trailing his fingers over the irregularity on his skin and shudder ever so slightly. The sight always made him clench his fists and wish that Moriarty hadn't gotten away that fateful day. No matter the wonderful distraction Moriarty's games provided, nobody got away with hurting what was his.

But in all truth, both of them that had come too close to loosing their life that day. When Sherlock had shot the vest, the explosion had been smaller than they'd anticipated, but still large enough to knock them off their feet. The consultant had gotten off cheaply – nothing more than a few cuts and bruises and a sprained ankle.

John on the other hand, had suffered two broken ribs and that burn on the left side of his neck. He'd told Sherlock later in the hospital that it wasn't too bad. That he should be lucky that the fire hadn't burnt his whole face.

But Sherlock hadn't really agreed. He hadn't been able to get the memory of John - lying lifelessly on the floor among debris and barely breathing - out of his mind.

After that it had been pretty rough on his friend. The wound had gotten infected and Sarah had left him shortly after his recovery, claiming that she couldn't bear to see him getting hurt every other day. Sherlock suspected that there had been some kind of ultimatum and that John hadn't decided in her favor. The implications caused a warm feeling to spread through his chest.

Nonetheless, it had been a bad time and as John stood in front of him, practically begging him with his eyes to keep the dog, it occurred to Sherlock that a pet might be just what John needed. He had been sort of depressed since the pool and Moriarty but he obviously enjoyed taking care of the dog. Maybe the fleabag would lift his spirits a little, give him something other to think about than his latest breakup or the new scar that now adorned his body.

Sally would assure you that Sherlock Holmes wasn't considerate of _anybody_, and the consultant would have agreed in a heartbeat.

But John wasn't anybody. John was John and Sherlock was willing to do anything to make John's life just a little bit happier, a little bit brighter. And if that meant that he would have to share his flat with a drooling mongrel from now on, then he would deal with it. One way or another.

So he'd let his friend keep the dog and after a few careful questions from John whether he was just agreeing because he needed something alive for one of his experiments and denying those accusations with a wry smirk, John had practically hugged him and assured him that he wouldn't regret it.

Now that he thought about it, Sherlock was certain that that was the moment everything had changed. When he'd briefly felt John's arms around him, felt the hot breath on his cheek, smelt that scent that was just _John_, he'd started to feel different around the doctor. Had started to notice him more and in ways that he hadn't done before. It was infuriating that he couldn't figure out what it meant but he wouldn't give up any time soon. 'Giving up' wasn't part of Sherlock Holmes vocabulary.

He watched as Gladstone tried to lick John's nose again and the doctor pushed the pup gently away, chuckling softly. Some might have found the sight endearing or even sweet, but while John's smile and laughter always made Sherlock yearn for more, something about what he was witnessing right now bothered him.

He still didn't like the dog, and he especially didn't like it when it slobbered all over John.

Another swipe of a tongue and another giggle from his flatmate and Sherlock's scowl grew a bit darker. When John played with Gladstone like this his cheeks would heat up and his eyes would shine with a joy that reminded Sherlock of a small child. He'd often wondered if John had _really_ looked for new owners at all, but even if he hadn't, it didn't matter anymore. John loved Gladstone and Sherlock would rather spent an whole evening with Anderson than take that away from him again, no matter how much he despised the thing.

But maybe despise wasn't the right word. When he saw the dog getting close to John and licking him, something inside of him seemed to clench and he had to fight the urge to grab its neck and throw it out the window. The weird part was, that he didn't react like that when it was someone else Gladstone was trying to drown with his bodily fluids.

When the puppy had slobbered all over Mycroft it hadn't bothered him at all. In fact, it had been hilarious and he'd immediately taken his phone out to take several pictures. He certainly hadn't experienced the same anxiety and resentment he felt when it was John's skin under Gladstone's tongue.

That was another piece of the puzzle. Another clue to figure out what was wrong with him but Sherlock was still unable to put it all together and he didn't like that.

Not one bit.

When the dog attempted to spread his infested saliva over his flatmates face again, Sherlock couldn't take it anymore.

"Why is that thing licking you all the time?"

John flinched, almost causing the puppy to slip off his lap. Sherlock was annoyed when it didn't fall. Would have served the little bugger right!

John blinked at him, trying to process the question, and Sherlock had the suspicion that his friend had completely forgotten that he was still in the room as well.

Sherlock decided that this was getting out of hand. If his flatmate even forgot about the great Sherlock Holmes over that stupid dog, something had to be done.

"What?" John asked. Sherlock barely kept himself from rolling his eyes.

"That thing has been licking you for about ten minutes now. Why would it do that?"

John's eyes narrowed a tiny bit, not quite annoyed yet, but well on the way. "The thing has a name, Sherlock." The consultant merely dismissed that with a wave of his hand and John sighed, knowing full well that arguing would be pointless. "And Gladstone's licking me because he likes me. That's how dogs show their affection."

"That is-" Sherlock searched for a word that wouldn't upset John – another sign that there was something wrong with him lately, because since when did he care if he upset anyone? - but failed to do so. "-gross."

The doctor wrinkled his nose. "I happen to think that it's lovely." His acid tone didn't quite fit the words and Sherlock had to hide a smile.

"That's not the only thing lovely in here."

The words were out of his mouth before he could check them. The genius didn't regret it though, when he saw John's face grow even redder as the man realized the meaning behind Sherlock's words. Sherlock found it quite fascinating how many facial expressions a human being could go through in the span of two seconds. John spluttered and searched for a comeback but obviously came up with a blank. After lots of stuttering, scratching madly at his left ear the whole time, the former army surgeon finally excused himself, pleading fatigue.

Sherlock watched him – and the bloody dog of course – leave, content to give the man a few minutes to get himself together before he'd take up pursuit. Because, as it was so often the case with Sherlock Holmes, the solution had come to him in a startling flash of complete clarity and brilliance.

He knew now what had changed between the two of them and despite what others might think, Sherlock Holmes liked change, embraced it even. Anything that might improve this dull life was more than welcome.

And what he'd discovered just a second ago would improve his life exceptionally, that he was sure of.

With a large smirk on his face he finished his tea and followed his flatmate into his room.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Gladstone yapped happily as John scratched between his ears but the human barely took notice.

Sherlock had been weird tonight. Not only had he watched John and his pup the whole time but then he'd said something that confused John more than he wanted to admit. Surely he had misinterpreted the whole thing. The doctor was all too aware of the fact that Sherlock had no idea about social conventions. The man probably didn't even know how suggestive his words must have sounded to anyone else but him.

The man sighed, letting himself fall back on his bed. Gladstone tried to lick his face again but John pushed him away. He'd just washed his face and no matter how much he liked it when Gladstone showed him how much he liked his human, he was still a doctor and no stranger to the merits of hygiene. His thoughts wandered back to his flatmate downstairs and he had to bite his lip so he wouldn't sigh again. You could only do that so much before you looked like a lovesick teenager.

_'But that's what you are, aren't you?' _John growled in frustration and pulled his pillow over his face to smother his irritated screams.

Everything had changed after that bloody night at the pool. First Sarah had left him and then he'd had to look for a new job because he really couldn't imagine working with his ex-girlfriend anymore. Especially after he'd more or less just dumped her for his flatmate.

The job-hunt hadn't gone too well and he'd grown depressed and moody. He'd just returned from another disappointing job interview when he'd heard soft whining from behind one of the dustbins. That was when he'd found Gladstone and there hadn't even been a question in his mind but to swoop the shivering thing up and taking it home.

John had been more than surprised when Sherlock had agreed to let him stay until John found a new home for the little guy. And he'd been downright shocked and suspicious when Sherlock had actually allowed him to keep the dog himself. The doctor chuckled to himself when he remembered how he hadn't let Gladstone out of his sight the next few days, always wary that Sherlock would abuse him in one of his experiments.

John heard sounds from downstairs and his thoughts veered back to his flatmate. He didn't know when his feelings for the consulting detective had changed but was convinced that it had happened sometimes after the pool. A lot had changed after that bloody pool.

Given his life, John was no stranger to the concept of thinking in terms of 'Before' and 'After'.

Before the war. After the war.

Before meeting Sherlock. After meeting Sherlock.

And of course, before the pool and after the pool.

It seemed to him that his life was just a concatenations of 'Before's' and 'After's' and he didn't know if that actually meant that there was something wrong with him. Or with the life he led.

But then he would remember that Sherlock was part of that life and then he'd think that it probably wasn't so bad after all.

Because truthfully; 'Before meeting Sherlock' hadn't been nearly as fun and exciting as 'After meeting Sherlock'.

There was a knock on his door but John didn't even bother getting up. There was only Sherlock in the flat and the man never waited for him to open the door. True to form, the door opened wide, admitting his gorgeous flatmate.

John blushed at his own thoughts and was happy that the light wasn't all that good in his room. He resolutely stared at the ceiling, refusing to move an inch when he felt Sherlock come nearer.

"What is it? Do you finally have a case?"

There was a thoughtful silence before his friend grabbed Gladstone by his neck and carried him towards the door. "Yes, I suppose you could say that."

The doctor raised himself to his elbows and watched Sherlock deposit the dog outside his room before coming back inside and closing the door again. The was some scratching and whining but soon everything was quiet again. Sherlock looked smug but John was honestly confused.

"What was that for?"

"Don't want an audience for this."

"Audience? For wha-?" John's voice died in his throat when Sherlock chose that moment to straddle his lap, placing his hands on either side of the smaller man's head. The elbows that had held him up a bit slackened and soon John found himself flat on his back. He was uncomfortably aware of the towering man over him. Any other man would have already found John's knee buried in their most vulnerable spot, but this wasn't any man. This was Sherlock bloody Holmes and if John didn't know better he might almost believe – hope – that the consultant was about to kiss him.

"What is it? Sherlock?"

"Did you wash your face?"

The question threw John enough that he momentarily forgot to blush like a virgin. Why was Sherlock asking about this? And why did he need to trap John to the bed, looking as if he was ready to ravish him, to ask?

"Yes, mother. I washed my face." John huffed, beginning to squirm under Sherlock. Of course this was just another weird quirk of his own highly functioning sociopath. It had been stupid to suspect anything else, really.

Sherlock nodded, obviously pleased, before he smiled that half smile that always made John's knees go weak. "Good."

And then his head was moving down towards John's but instead of kissing him, he pressed his mouth to John's cheek. The smaller man had only a second to enjoy the feeling of cold lips against his heated cheeks before something wet traveled from his chin all the way up to his temple.

Sherlock had always called him slow and maybe he really was because it took John an embarrassing long time to realized that Sherlock was actually licking him.

The knowledge sent a jolt through his body, right down to his rapidly tightening pants. Sherlock must have noticed his reaction because John felt the mouth grin against his skin, before the skillful tongue ran over his jugular.

"What are you doing? Not that I want you to stop but- well-" John muttered, clutching at Sherlock's jacket with nimble fingers to pull him closer and deciding that talking was overrated, especially when your brain was melting into a puddle of goo right about now.

"Isn't that obvious?" Sherlock's voice was rough and husky and John groaned when he felt that bloody tongue press gently against his upper lip. "I'm showing you my affection."

And then they were kissing and just before John decided that thinking was overrated too, he realized that he would have to think in terms of 'Before' and 'After' again...

...after this night.

END

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

I just though that making sure that John had washed all that dog-slobber off before licking him himself would be something Sherlock would definitely do. :)

Soooo, Sherlock jealous of a dog, huh? Isn't that just crazy? You know how to tell me! *glances at review button*


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: **Sherlock is not mine, nor is John or Sally or Anderson (not that I want the latter two...)

**Spoilers: **None

**Pairings: **Donovan/Anderson (sort of) , Sherlock/John (establ. relationship)

**A/N: **Something a bit different this time. The plotbunny was snatched from **magic10** (with permission of course) who I hope will like what I made out of it. I hope you all like it of course! :) It's a difficult time for me right now and I wanted to write something funny to cheer myself up. There is still a bit angst to be found here, but I think it's more amusing than anything else.

This story was beta'd by **PrincessNala,** who is not only a great beta, but also a great friend and listener! Thanks a lot my dear.

**And last but not least I'd like to thank everyone for their reviews and encouraging words. I guess you have to be a writer yourself to appreciate how much feedback means to an author. Thank you.**

On with the story.

**::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::**

**Always Daisy-Time**

**::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::**

_'And what's romance? Usually, a nice little tale where you have everything as you like it, where rain never wets your jacket and gnats never bite your nose, and it's always daisy-time.'_

_D.H. Lawrence_

_:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::_

Sally Donovan hated her life.

Oh, please don't get her wrong; She didn't hate her life _constantly_. Mostly, she was pretty happy with who she was and where her life was leading her. Working with the police had always been her dream. Ever since she had been a little girl, watching 'Starsky and Hutch' on the telly and yelling at her parents that she wanted to be just like them when she was all grown-up.

A declaration that had made the father proud as a peacock and the poor mother slump into her chair in a rare show of despairing fretfulness.

So yeah, she was doing what she'd always dreamed of, her boss wasn't a complete jerk and she'd just gotten a pay raise. Usually, Sally Donovan loved her life, or was at least content with it, but in moments like these...

Sally huffed and shoved another jacket sleeve out of her face. Crouching naked in the wardrobe of her fling and waiting for the wife of said fling to finally leave again was not her idea of a fun evening.

Yes, it was in moments like these, that she really hated her live.

She wondered briefly why she let Anderson treat her like this. Sally had always considered herself to be a proud, strong woman. But proud and strong women didn't hide between suits and pants, did they? But then again, Anderson had more of less shoved her in here when they'd heard the front door open and Mrs. Anderson call out for her husband. The wanker hadn't even let her grab her clothes, just flung them under the rumpled bed with his foot while his hands pressed against her shoulders to get her into the damn wardrobe.

Sally thought that she could be forgiven for being too perplexed to react properly – and with properly she meant a right hook across Andersons face. Before she knew it, she'd been wrenched between Andersons clothes, completely naked and in utter darkness. She'd already had her hand on the door again, ready to push it open and finally end this charade, but by then 'The Wife' had already entered the room. She'd been able to hear her nasal voice through the door and she'd hesitated just a little bit too long. Long enough at least, to make her realize that she was completely naked and that, should she ever decide to face that woman, she certainly wanted to be dressed for that encounter.

So she'd pulled her hand back and remained where she was, one ear pressed to the door to be able to eavesdrop. Normally she'd never do that, but she was practically trapped in a bloody wooden box! What else was she supposed to do?

"Hey, honey." She heard Anderson say and his false cheerfulness made her gag. "What are you doing here back so soon? I thought you'd spent the night with your sister?"

"Not even pretending to have missed me, huh! Oh well, not that I expected anything else, really."

Sally couldn't help the small smirk. No matter what she might think about 'The Wife', the woman was no pushover.

"You know that's not true. I-"

"Spare me your sorry excuses. You probably hoped to get rid of me for a lot longer, didn't you?"

"No matter what I say, you never listen anyway. Why can't you just-"

"My mother always told me not to marry a bloke like you, but did I listen? NO, of course not-"

"Oh my gosh, are you really going to give me your 'My mother never liked you' speech again? Well, let me tell you that my parents were hoping for something better for me than you as well!

"You bastard! How dare you? I-"

Sally stopped listening there. Their voices were reduced to an unintelligible murmur through the wood that separated her from them, but even that was too much so she pressed her hands over her ears and slid to the ground. A few of the coat hangers rattled but the two squabblers out there were too preoccupied – not to mention too loud – to hear it.

Sally wondered whether Anderson had forgotten her completely. She sighed and bit her lip to keep herself from screaming in frustration.

Why the bloody hell did she do this to herself? Why wasn't she just stepping out of this thing, collected her clothes, wished them a good night and left? What did she have to lose? It couldn't be her dignity since she was pretty sure that it had quit its job when she'd let herself be pushed into a wardrobe. So, why was she still here?

A lot of questions to which she had not one sensible answer. And, if she was honest with herself, a lot of questions that had the only purpose to distract her from the one question that really counted, that had tortured her for a long while now.

Why hadn't she already broken up with Anderson?

He always promised her that he would leave his wife, that the two of them had nothing in common anymore. That the marriage only existed on paper now.

"She's all the same to me." He'd once told her.

But if that's the case, Sally wondered, then why are they arguing all the time. Why are they still together? You don't argue with someone you feel indifferent about, right? You don't share a bed with someone like that, don't you?

At first Sally had always tried to convince herself that it was just difficult to break up with your wife and that it needed the proper time and preparation. She'd never been married, so she guessed that it could be true.

But nine months had passed and they still weren't divorced. Sally and Anderson still had to hide. Sherlock 'The Freak' Holmes was still making fun of them and their affair.

It shouldn't still be an affair. It should have been a relationship by now, they should have been official at the PD.

Did she do this because she honestly loved him? Another question that she didn't have an answer to, which really should have been answer enough.

Sally cocked her head and listened as Mr. and Mrs. Anderson took their fight to the living room. She could have crept out now, grab her clothes and disappear through the window or something. But she felt lethargic all of a sudden, almost sleepy. If she went out there now and disappeared, then she would remember this in the morning as a short inconvenience which had been embarrassing but, in retrospect, almost funny.

A perverse part of her didn't want that. A part of her wanted to sit this out, to see how long she would have to sit here and freeze her butt off before Anderson finally came back to retrieve her.

She wanted to see how much she could endure, would have to endure, before she'd finally come to her senses.

Apparently she could endure a lot, because it was 3 hours and 43 minutes before she punched the wall to her right and decided that enough was enough. Her butt was hurting, she was freezing and her stomach was grumbling since they had planned to go to dinner after a little tumble into the bedsheets.

She awkwardly stumbled to her feet, cursing under her breath the whole time as she tried to get some feeling back into her legs. That's why she didn't hear Anderson come back into the room until he opened the door to the wardrobe. The light hurt her eyes and Sally shielded them, blinking furiously and only partially hearing Andersons blather.

"She's finally gone. Sheesh, I can't believe that woman. I mean, why did she even bother to come back if she was just going to start a fight again? One might think that that's her only purpose in life anymore; annoying me!" He finally had to take a breath and got a good look at Donovan's face. It was carefully blank but her eyes were alive with an emotion that almost made him back away from her. "H-Hey, Sal'. Are you alright?"

And Sally Donovan did something that she should have done 3 hours and 43 minutes ago.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

"That looks painful." John Watson said, his voice thick with compassion. "What happened?"

Anderson grimaced and sucked in a painful breath as his broken nose objected to that action. Sally was standing a few feet away and – hopefully – unnoticed rubbed her bruised knuckles. She hadn't thought that she'd hit him hard enough to actually break something and she knew that she should feel bad about it.

Fact was, she didn't.

Surprisingly enough, she'd never felt better than she'd done in a long time.

Her boyfriend – or rather ex-boyfriend, since nothing screamed louder_ 'I'm breaking up with you.'_ than a broken nose, even if she hadn't said the actual words – glared at her and Sally smiled amiably back. Anderson seemed confused for a second before he turned back to the honestly concerned doctor. Sally knew that John didn't like Anderson, but the man was just too kind to let that make a difference when it came to someone hurt. A trait she admired greatly and which was just one more reason why Sally had to convince him that that Freak wasn't good for him. Since she was single now, she might as well concentrate all of her energy on that task. It at least ought to be better than watching sappy movies and eating comfort-chocolate until she'd have to visit the gym again.

Even though she felt great about the break-up, didn't mean she felt great about being alone again. She wasn't getting younger after all...

"None of your business." Anderson snarled at the army surgeon. His voice sounded nasally through the broken nose.

_'Just like his beloved wife._' Sally thought and was surprised by the bitter taste that thought left behind.

Sherlock Holmes chose that moment to come back from his chat with Lestrade about the latest case and slung an arm over his lover's shoulders.

"Leave it, John." he said and steered the blushing man away. "Forcing a woman to spend the night in a wardrobe – even Anderson should have seen this coming."

He shot a smirk at Donovan before they left the precinct. Sally vaguely heard John's confused answer but didn't pay much mind to them, too busy fuming and trying to keep the blush from her face. Sherlock hadn't said it loud enough to be heard by anyone but Sally and John – another sign that the good doctor had been an incredible influence on the consultant since they'd started to share a bed – but the fact alone that 'The Freak' once again had deduced how her night had gone was enough to make her blood boil.

And it was all Anderson's fault.

"Man, what a freak, huh?" The source of her aggravation said and drew up besides her. Sally shot Anderson a deadly look, which he apparently decided to ignore. "Well, whatever. There is a new exhibition about dinosaurs in town. Want to see it with me?"

Sally smacked her palm into her face before she realized that she should hit someone else instead. A broken nose obviously hadn't screamed _'I break up with you'_ loud enough. Maybe she should break something else instead to completely bring the message home.

But then her eyes fell on her supervisor who watched them with curious eyes. Lestrade had never said anything about the two of them, but Sally doubted that he would simply look the other way should she start punching Andersons face in. As long as her boss was near, she was left with glaring at Anderson instead, her hands tightly clenched by her sides.

"What? Is that a yes?"

Sally Donovan groaned.

Sometimes she really hated her life.

END

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

I realize that Sally probably doesn't have a lot of fans out there but while I can't stand her in the show, I really think that she has the potential to become a complex character with many depths given the right attention. And where can you give a character more attention than in your own story, right?

Not much Sherlock/John this time but I always wanted to include the whole cast of Sherlock, so here it is. Hope you like it. If you did, tell me please. You know how. :)


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: Not mine, never will be.

Pairings: None, Mrs. Hudson

Beta: Not Beta'd this time since my beta doesn't seem to be online right now. So if you notice any grave mistakes, let me know please. Maybe I'll replace this with the beta'd version in the future.

Spoilers: None

Rating: T, just to be safe.

A/N: So, this time the One-Shot is more about envy than jealousy, but close enough, right? It features mainly Mrs. Hudson, sorry to all the fellow Sherlock/John lovers out there but the old lady screamed for a story of her own and then I got this idea and didn't get it out of my head again, so here it is. This is a bit angsty, a bit funny, but overall one of my favorites so far even if it isn't beta'd. I used a lot of british slang here, hope it doesn't irritate too much...

**::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::**

**What is Kind**

**::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::**

_- Today I bent the truth to be kind, and I have no regret, for I am far surer of what is kind than I am of what is true. _

_- Robert Brault -_

There had been a time in her life that Mrs. Hudson didn't care to remember.

She'd just turned fifty when she'd accepted - being the down-to-earth woman that she'd always been – that she would never have children on her own. Her husband hadn't wanted any kids and after years of arguing with the stubborn toff she'd simply resigned. Deep in her heart she had still hoped that, one day, the git she'd been daft enough to marry, would change his mind. Or at least that she would finally get over herself and leave him. It was sad but also true that she only stayed with him out of habit. It would have been such a chore to leave him, search for a new flat and lawyers that might actually make sure that she wouldn't be left with nothing to her name. For the longest time it had just seemed like the better deal to stay where she was, to wait and see where life would lead her.

Only now she was suddenly painfully aware that life hadn't led her anywhere. At least not anywhere she wanted to be.

Her husband spent his days and nights at the pub while she herself was just going through the motions. A small part of the day she would do the housework before sitting down in front of the telly and watching mindless talk-shows whose guests were so pathetic that the old woman didn't know whether to cry or laugh.

The only diversion she got anymore were the weekly afternoon coffee parties at Mrs. Edinson's. The five elderly girls would gossip about the unfortunate neighbours that weren't part of their little group and occasionally exchange recipes. Afterwards, Mrs. Hudson would go home and not care that her husband wasn't there or that she had another week of boredom ahead of her, because this Wednesday afternoon had been fun and carefree. There were times in her life that she thought of nothing else and eagerly awaited the next Wednesday when she could see her friends again and badmouth Mrs. Keith's new hairdo.

But as the women grew older, their conversations shifted to other topics. They talked less and less about their neighbours and recipes, but about their children and grandchildren.

It had all started with puffy Mrs. Roster. The big woman had twirled her dyed hair (a bright red that even her friends found appalling but who'd assured her that it made her look 10 years younger) between her fingers and suddenly pulled a couple of photos out of her bag. She'd made sure that everyone got a good look of an equally chubby boy around eight, sitting in front of a grand piano with a goofy grin on his face.

"My Gary had his first piano lesson yesterday." Roster had said, proud as a peacock. "He's so talented."

And suddenly it had been like a bloody epidemic. Everyone reaching into their handbags and producing pictures of their grandchildren and flaunting with their intelligence or looks.

At first it had amused Mrs. Hudson. She'd sat back and enjoyed the show, watching her friends try to subtly talk the other kids down while praising their own to God-like heights.

When the next Wednesday had come around and the old ladies talked about nothing but their grandchildren yet again, Mrs. Hudson had still not been overly worried. It was just a spell, she'd told herself. Soon they were going to grow bored of the topic and move on to something else.

But then another Wednesday had passed and another and another and they were still talking about their bloody kids and Mrs. Hudson could no longer deny the obvious truth: This wouldn't blow over like a bad case of the flu. This would be her Wednesday afternoon from now on, listening to stories about children she didn't know.

And there was nothing she could do about it.

Mrs. Hudson had soon learned that there wasn't a lot that she could say anymore either. While she'd been an active participant of their little group all the years before, she now found herself to be some kind of outsider. She would sit there and sip her coffee and listen to them, prattling on and on about their families, without having anything to say herself. She certainly couldn't tell them about her no-good husband or her estranged sister whom she hadn't seen in about 10 years. She had no children and therefore no grandchildren and for the first time since she'd turned fifty, that thought actually managed to hurt her. In fact, it felt like a sharp knife straight through the heart. She'd been convinced that she'd gotten over her dream to have some offspring on her own, but listening to the others and being reduced to a mere spectator amongst her own friends showed her just how wrong she'd been.

It was too late now. She was too old for kids. She was even too old to adopt – she had checked that in a moment of sheer loneliness and desperation. There was no chance whatsoever that Mrs. Hudson would ever have children and the day she finally and truly accepted that, a tiny part of her died forever.

She still attended the meetings. Her friends didn't seem to notice anything wrong with her. Mrs. Edinsons, their host, once remarked to the others that the dear Mrs. Hudson seemed quieter than before but they all just assumed that it was because of her crumbling marriage and soon turned to other topics again. From time to time Mrs. Hudson would force herself to inquire after the kids she really didn't want to hear about. She didn't do that often though because it just hurt too much.

And one day, on a cold Wednesday in February, when Mrs. Hudson looked at her watch and for the first time in 15 years willed it to go faster so this meeting could end and she could finally leave again, she went home and cried.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Years later

It was Wednesday and her friends looked up with several stages of exasperation and annoyance as Mrs. Hudson arrived at their weekly meeting. She was late by several minutes and there was nothing the group detested more than tardiness.

"You're late dear." Mrs. Pettygrew chided. The old widow had always been the most stern when it came to tardiness. She always claimed that her husband would still be alive if he hadn't been late for his train. Which was sadly enough more than true, considering that the poor fellow actually fell in front of said train in his haste to be on time.

"Sorry, sorry." Mrs. Hudson panted and claimed her regular seat at the end of the table. "The boys couldn't find the remote again. I had to help."

"If they didn't have you they would be lost, wouldn't they?" Mrs. Keith asked kindly. She had joined their group a few years prior when she'd lost her husband and everyone feared she'd succumb to loneliness. Needless to say that the group never badmouthed her hairdo again.

"Oh you have no idea Susan. How someone as smart as Sherlock can be so clueless at times is beyond me. Thank God John moved in. That boy is a real help, keeping Sherlock in line."

"Say, there was this double murder last week. Were your boys involved in that? That Detective Lestrade mentioned help from outside."

Mrs. Hudson nodded and took a bite of her biscuit before she spread her arms and told them about how Lestrade had come to them and asked Sherlock and John for help. She told them how Sherlock had identified the killer by a single strand of hair and recounted as well as she could the mad chase through London before her two boys had finally caught the killer. She hadn't been there when all of that had transpired, but she'd pumped John for the details just before she'd left the house, which was the real reason why she'd been late. Things that she didn't know or John hadn't been able to tell her, Mrs. Hudson made up herself. She loved to spice up her stories with a bit of drama and danger, especially if it originally had been a pretty straightforward case.

After she'd finished her tale, her friends were all glassy eyed and staring at her in awe.

"Oh dear. This is better than the crime movies on the telly. And your boys are really okay?"

"Of course they are. This sort of thing is nothing for them."

"You sure are brave." Mrs. Keith said. "If my son and his spouse went out there chasing criminals I would die of fear."

The others wholeheartedly agreed and Mrs. Hudson hid a smile behind her cup. If John knew that even people he'd never met thought he and Sherlock were a couple it would definitely drive the good doctor crazy.

But then her smile froze. Son? Had she really just said 'son'? Why would they think that Sherlock was her son? That they'd meant Sherlock and not John was pretty obvious since she'd only started mentioning the young man a few weeks back, whereas Sherlock and his cases had been a very prominent topic of their conversations for about a year now.

But surely she must have mentioned at one point that he was only her lodger, right? She'd certainly never called him her son.

It suddenly occurred to her that she almost always refereed to him as her 'dear boy' or 'Sherlock'. No wonder they thought he was her son - the mistake wasn't that hard to make.

Mrs. Hudson watched them talk with each other about the case and a warm feeling began to spread through her chest.

"Son." she whispered to herself.

Sherlock certainly had been like a son to her after he'd ensured that her husband would rot in hell where he belonged. He was difficult and bloody stubborn but she'd always managed to calm him down and reign him in. Couple of bullet holes in the wall and the one or other drug bust notwithstanding, she was really glad that she'd met the man and kept him around.

The doctor too. She'd known John just for a few weeks, but what she'd seen had impressed her and she'd quickly warmed up to him. He was such a sweet man, always helping her with her shopping and looking in on her on his way to work to make sure that everything was alright.

She especially liked the effect he had on Sherlock. The man could deny it as much as he wanted, but his landlady ('not your housekeeper') knew that he needed a friend more than anyone else. And now he'd found one and a bloody good one, if Mrs. Hudson dared to say so.

She suddenly wanted them to think that John was her son too, since she felt like that about the both of them. But it would have been suspicious to invent a new son now, one that they already believed to be Sherlock's spouse on top of that. It was a miracle that they'd even assumed that Sherlock was her son since she'd never mentioned him in all the years before.

The thought of telling them the truth didn't even enter her mind. What was a little white lie between good friends? Not to mention the fact that she'd finally started to look forward to these meetings again, now that she too had stories to tell about her own kids.

"So," she drawled with a serene smile on her lips. "What are your grandchildren up to?"

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

I'm actually not sure if you are too old to adopt when you are fifty (I personally don't think so) but let's just assume that it is.

No Sherlock/John this time. I hope you'll review regardless. If you do I promise you a yummy Sherlock/John One-Shot next. ;)


End file.
